


It's Over, We're Sober, Symptoms of the Culture

by oppressa



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: 'off screen' Character Death, Fighting Kink, Forgiveness, Future Fic, Inadequate Preparation, Incest, M/M, Multi, Not Beta Read, Reconciliation Sex, Roughness, Skol trope check, This Won't Happen, but is Hvitserk going dark on the show like he's supposed to, i hope so, playing with hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-02-19 13:36:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13124832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oppressa/pseuds/oppressa
Summary: Ubbe is sick enough of his brothers being killed not to finish it like this with Hvitserk.





	It's Over, We're Sober, Symptoms of the Culture

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
> I really think Hvitserk might desert Ivar now, after the last episode, and Ivar is probably the only one who is actually safe, but I couldn't stop going with this (even though I don't much like it), so here it is. Only when I finished it did I realise I had to up the original Teenage rating lol I'm so irresponsible. 
> 
> Title from Foster the People.

 

In the end he didn’t strike Hvitserk down himself, though he thinks he saw him once, this lithe fighter cutting a swathe through Kattegat's forces, seemingly unstoppable. He thought,  _Hvitserk_ , and  _Just knock him over, ram him with a shield, it's easy_. But whoever finally did it, he survived. The same can't be said for their younger brother. The men who brought him back from the battle said they found him screaming and crying and laughing over Ivar’s body, all at the same time. Turns out you could kill the Boneless after all. And that perhaps Hvitserk is just as mad.

Ubbe said he could be chained to the rest of them, not even on the front or back of the line, just among them somewhere, so Ubbe would find him, and say  _this is what you are now, you’re no brother of mine_ , then kill him with no ceremony, a traitor’s death, right in front of all of them. Ivar already pissed all over their father's legacy, with Hvitserk as a part of it. What does he care if neither of them meet him in Valhalla?

Nevertheless, when he sees him in the hall, crammed between two broader Vikings of Ivar's army, Hvitserk still looks like his brother, not like anyone else (besides the way he takes after their mother, which only serves to reinforce it). On the stringy side as ever, calmer than they described, bloodstreaked and caked in mud. He is overcome with the urge to hug him fiercely despite, or maybe because of the circumstances. He's actually sick enough of his brothers being killed not to want to finish it like this with Hvitserk, and since he and Lagertha won, he can do as he pleases.

“Get him up. Remove him from my sight.”

He looks surprised when he's released, pulled off his knees. He glances over his shoulder at him and Ubbe stares back without giving anything away. Hvitserk hisses as they drag him out of there, legs flailing, but he doesn't draw any more attention by shouting Ubbe's name.

 

They put him, to Ubbe's amusement, in the barn where he first fucked with Margrethe. He wonders if Hvitserk knows that. Like Sigurd, he preferred to take her outdoors, to the riverside. On their wedding night, he wasn't jealous of anything except the way Hvitserk seemed to enjoy licking Margrethe's body more than he did sucking his cock when Ubbe sought it of him, how it made her arch and squirm. So much so that he pushed Hvitserk's head between her legs in order to hasten it, as he'd held him face down in his own lap sometimes, striving to keep his hands off his brother otherwise. Although they all had her in the past, when she was their slave, he would never have let anyone else share his wife, and look how Hvitserk repaid him.

He decides to go and deal with it after the victory feast, carrying a flagon and two cups. The barn lies outside the heat from the hall, cold and dark. Hvitserk is sat waiting for him on one of the straw bales. There was a bucket of water left for him, but it doesn't look like he used it to clean up much, judging by the muck still on him, he only scrubbed his face and had done with it. He has his head bowed now, biting his lip. He looks up, catches Ubbe's eyes, and down again.

“Come on, Hvitserk. Do you fear me? Or are you ashamed, maybe, is that it? There's no need. I heard you only stopped fighting when Ivar fell next to you.”

He pours the warm mead into the cups and bends to set one beside him. The tether on his wrists, fastened around a short stake driven into the floor, gives him barely enough leeway to manage a drink.

Ubbe raises his own.

“Skol.”

He clenches and unclenches his fists. “I'm sorry, Ubbe.”

Ubbe just drains his mead, and nods at the other cup. His brother rolls his eyes. He reaches, though. Right as his fingers almost brush it Ubbe kicks it over, spilling its steaming contents on the stones. And there is a snarl of anger, Hvitserk rising off his seat of straw, but Ubbe meets him, growling into his face with his own rage, pushing him down again like Hvitserk's ferocity is nothing of any consequence. He's always been able to do that.

“What are you sorry about? That Ivar died? That you betrayed me to join him? How do I know that’s true? What have you got against me? What do you even think, in there?”

He doesn't have an answer, only offers his rueful, boyish smile. For the first time, it looks slightly unhinged, making Ubbe consider again the possibility of things he should have realised about Hvitserk's state of mind. He hits him, for reminding him of Ivar. It's satisfying, no matter what.

“I will put you back with the rest who haven't been executed yet and you won’t be my brother anymore. Lagertha can decide what to do with you.”

He shakes his head, as if that doesn't have much of an impact. “Do you remember when we fell through the ice, as children? We could have died, then. And now we’re the only ones left.”

Ubbe hits him once more, although there's significantly less force in it. “That's not how you save yourself. Try again.”

“I chose Ivar not to be in your shadow any longer and then I had to be behind it or look just as weak as before, when I was torn between the two of you. Be even more bloodthirsty than he was. Be a man in order to...” Hvitserk looks at his fingers, twisting them in his lap, a habit whenever he feels awkward, or as in this case, affected, saddened. "To support him. He was our little brother. Do you understand that?”

 _Now_ he hugs him when he  _wants_  to shake him and call him a fucking idiot. But it feels so good to hold him, better surely than another punch would.

“Yes.”

He rests his chin on Ubbe’s shoulder. Rubs his nose against his ear.

“I'm sorry, brother.” This is whispered, very earnestly. “For all of it.”

Ubbe claps him on the back. “I know.”

 

They stay like that a while. Ubbe smooths his hair, fiddling with bits of it that have come loose. He wants to undo it all and card his fingers through, yet he settles for pulling gently at the ends of the braids and brushing his lips over the front of his scalp. To him this is an affectionate gesture, though he's aware there could be more to it. Hvitserk's breath on his neck is getting shorter, and he whimpers something high-pitched against Ubbe's skin. Ubbe turns his head, until their mouths are together, bumping, then kissing, closed then open. It just happens so naturally. As Hvitserk is concentrating on not letting him take control, Ubbe gets his hand down between their bodies before he can stop him. He's hard, jumping at Ubbe's touch, blushing straight away.

“Poor boy.” He utters this right next to his heated cheek.

His eyes darken like shutters coming down. He only bore the indignity of being their servant at the feast somewhat good-naturedly through gritted teeth, and the desire not to make it worse by responding to Sigurd and Ivar's barbs. However, there was another game going on. Ubbe had whispered he wasn't allowed to sit down until everyone else had gone, and then he might be rewarded. Perhaps that's what he really ran away from, liking being demeaned when every instinct tells him to put up a fight. As with many things with Hvitserk, it's anyone's guess. Ubbe pulls him forward again by his knees and he kicks out. So he draws a knife and cuts him away from the stake.

“Go on. Touch  _yourself_ , if I'm not allowed.”

But Hvitserk shoves him against the wall of the barn, throws a punch of his own, which he ducks and seizes his arm, dragging him off balance. He slams his other elbow into Ubbe's side when he bends to help him up. Then they're just fighting like the old times, before it turned into anything else, when they were only boys unable to resolve an argument any other way, and Hvitserk really thought he could win, and Ivar used to watch and clap from the sidelines, encouraging and goading them both.

Now though, the closeness of his brother, their sweat, the pain in his ribs, all provokes his own arousal. The difference between them, aside from the physical, is that Ubbe keeps his composure, and Hvitserk tends to lose it, edging towards the berserker he can turn into in battle. He won't initially permit Ubbe to wrestle him, but in the end he forgets, throwing caution to the wind and attacking in a heedless passion.

It's around this point Hvitserk stops spinning away from his grabs and tries to headbutt him in the stomach. He takes the brunt of it, gets him round the hips and bears him, bucking and biting like fucking livestock, to the ground. Ubbe has to kneel on his chest to make him lay still, on his back, just scrabbling at him, in token resistance. He knows Hvitserk can see his cock risen in his britches. He reaches behind him to check again in Hvitserk's, and squeezes what he finds, making him groan, then lets go as quickly.

Ubbe strips the black – now mostly brown with mud - armour off, till he's good as naked, limbs that haven't entirely lost the tan from the Mediterranean splayed out, though his hands fist in Ubbe's furs as he rubs their crotches together.

"What are you going to use?" He hisses, letting him know he's at least willing.

He doesn't have any grease on him. Ubbe thrusts two fingers into his mouth and Hvitserk nearly chokes, swallowing the shock.

They are caught for several moments in a direct stare, through which Ubbe thinks Hvitserk is trying to ascertain that he isn't joking. A second longer of this and he swallows again, possibly more to do with trepidation than reflex. His tongue then rasps over Ubbe's knuckles, coating them with idle strokes. It appears he still trusts him, to know what he's doing, though the evidence at this stage points decidedly against it.

Even so he tries to make it relatively gentle, to wait until his legs are sprawled open in front of him, showing he's ready. It crosses his mind that this could be a punishment, Hvitserk probably thinks it is, but he's not taking him nearly as hard as he used to and his ass isn't particularly tight, given that he hasn't had this in a good while. If anything he's getting off easy. He fucks deeper and sees him wince and swear under his breath, prompting him to ask if it's hurting.

Hvitserk glares at him, turns his head, and spits.

Ubbe scoffs and takes his cock in his still slicked hand, which Hvitserk registers with a moan, then as he starts roughly tugging by gasping Ubbe's name over and over and finally sighing, knocking him off so his seed messes his thighs. Ubbe stays in him, rocking into his body spread eagle on the stalks. It smells like him and Margrethe were there only yesterday.

“Shut up.” He says at Hvitserk's noise of disgust as he comes. “You're just as bad. By all the gods, you need a fucking wash.”

He shrugs, an arm flung across his eyes to emphasize how much he couldn't care about that. “Perhaps Margrethe could help me.”

Ubbe laughs, and smacks him. He could see a time when they let him back into their bed, if she was agreeable. Hvitserk grins, and shifts underneath him, hands stroking up and down his arms, cold now without his clothes. Ubbe throws back his tunic and studies him as his chest stretches to put it on, it only just occurring to him he could well be injured.

He isn't, apart from minor cuts and bruising, the imprint of an axe handle held against his ribs, perhaps to discourage him from moving after he'd been subdued. He remembers Hvitserk worriedly checking his head, in the Saxon camp, though it had to be quick since they were disarmed and surrounded by soldiers. It's understandable he wanted payback for the jeering, for making him watch Ubbe's beating with a sword to his throat. But at the time he broke Ubbe's transfixed focus on the one who did it when he knew they'd been let go, hurrying him out of there with no interest in saving face. He was concerned for him, no matter how badly he thought it had gone, he was there to know it could have worked, despite the danger Ubbe had lead him into. And he had taken that for granted, without realising how fortunate he'd been to have him at his back up until then.

Perhaps he'd overused his right as the oldest, with Margrethe, with everything, too angry to think that might've informed Hvitserk's decision to stay with Ivar. He can't begin to predict what he'll want to do now, because what is on the surface is never the whole story, but if he does remain, maybe Ubbe can change that. Thank the Gods, for giving him the chance.

 

 


End file.
